


Cry Wolf

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s03e01 Manchester Part I, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-23
Updated: 2002-11-23
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: This is an administration of too lates.





	Cry Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Cry Wolf**

**by:** Baked Goldfish 

**Category:** Leo/Margaret, episode related  
**Rating:** MATURE (for a little bit of language and a little bit of sex)  
**Spoilers:** Takes place in the Manchesters  
**Summary:** This is an administration of too lates.  
**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns the characters. Don't sue me.  
**Author's Notes:** This is a bit of an experiment for me, so any constructive criticism you might have would be quite appreciated. 

He pulled his jacket closer around him against the crisp New Hampshire air. Unlike muggy DC, the skies here were clear, and looking up, he could see swarms of stars, clouds of foggy vaseline-edged pinpoints of light; and every now and again, the wind picked up a few vagrant dry leaves, and made them skitter across the cracked cement sidewalk like so many waves in the sea. 

He found her in an alley, standing propped up against the rough brick wall as if it were the only thing in the world left to support her. She was smoking, and it left an acrid-sweet smell in the air, pungent and thick. 

"Hey." 

She looked up at him, saw who it was, and went back to her cigarette. "Hey." 

"What're you doing up?" he asked, leaning into the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

"Could ask you the same thing," she replied. 

He shrugged. "Had a meeting with Bruno." He motioned to her cigarette. "I thought you'd quit that, years ago." 

"Yeah," she replied, bringing the cigarette back up to her mouth. "It's pretty cliche, isn't it?" 

"How's that?" 

"Girl, smoking a cigarette in the middle of the night, outside a bar," she explained. "It's cliche." 

"I guess," he agreed hesitantly. "You know, you still haven't answered my question." 

"Your question?" she repeated, her red hair swaying as she shook her head in confusion, and for a moment, he wanted to walk over and brush those few errant strands out of her face. Instead, he chewed the inside of his cheek, and pushed his hands into his pockets. 

"What you're doing here," he explained. 

She shrugged and picked up an empty beer bottle. "Smoking a little, getting drunk." 

He blinked at her bluntness, but brushed it off. "It's a bit too late at night for that, isn't it?" 

"Yeah, maybe," she answered. "But this seems to be an administration of too lates, so... whatever." 

It was too late at night for him to even attempt to understand what she'd meant, so he just said, "I guess." Pointing at her cigarette, he added, "You know, it's pretty stupid, too." 

"How's that?" 

"Smoking, in an alley, with all these cardboard boxes around," he stated. "It's probably a fire hazard, or something. It's pretty stupid." 

"Yeah, well, so's hiding the fact-" 

He grimaced and turned away. "Oh, come on-" 

"So's hiding the fact that the President-" 

"You're not still hung up about that, are you?" he growled, his calmer spirits gone as he glared at her. 

"Damn right I am," she seethed. Sighing, she flicked her ash into a trashcan; her shoulders sagged as she pushed her anger down. "Donna knew before me," she stated, her voice sounding subdued and submissive. 

He sighed a faltering sigh, half broken and raspy, and looked away. She was angry with him for good reason, and he'd never actually gotten around to apologizing for it. There had been a rift between them, in place since she'd found out, and he had been the one to put it there. She was angry with him, and it was his fault. "I didn't want--I mean, Toby told her, and I'd wanted to tell all the senior assistants together." 

"Yeah." She crushed the cigarette out against the brick wall. "You know, I've yet to see one of those 'Keep New Hampshire Clean' signs anywhere," she stated as she tossed the spent butt into a dirty metal trashcan. 

"What's that?" 

"Like how in Maryland, they've got, 'Keep Maryland Clean' signs. I haven't seen 'em for here. Have you?" 

"I haven't really been looking," he replied, a bit of defensive sarcasm seeping in. It came out a more serious sounding than he'd intended, and he looked away again, his hand absently moving up to rub the back of his neck. "Listen, you're still pissed." 

"Ya think?" 

He ignored the acerbity in her voice and turned to the mouth of the alley. "I'll leave you alone." 

"You knew more than a year before us, Leo," she spat out quietly behind him. 

Shifting from one foot to the other, he nodded, not turning to face her. "Yeah." 

"When Lillienfield and Claypool were coming after you, I stood behind you all the way," she said. "I was there when you finally decided to clean yourself up, and I was there when Jenny left you." 

"Yeah." 

"You lied to me." 

He took a deep breath, and his shoulders drooped pathetically as he exhaled. "Yeah." 

"I really don't get you sometimes," Margaret started, resting on a closed metal trashcan. "I mean, you're not stupid. How could you *not* have thought that it could be trouble?" 

"Maybe because it wasn't trouble until he decided to go public with it," he seethed, turning around again. "I don't know what you've heard, Margaret, but he didn't exactly force anyone to lie or anything." 

"Well, I've only heard what they tell me on the news," she quipped pointedly, her arms crossed over her chest and her shoulders pulled in almost protectively. "I'm sorry if I'm not as informed as the rest of you." 

He sighed again, and thought that maybe he might be sighing more often than he used to these days. "Margaret, it really was a mistake not telling all the assistants at once." 

"It really was, Leo," she agreed, brushing her straight red hair away from her face. 

He would apologize. He had to find the right words, and the right time, but he would apologize. Taking a slow, stuttering step toward her, he quietly said, "It wasn't my fault." 

"Like hell it wasn't," she said as he stood in front of her. 

He glanced away, unsure of what to say next. "You know, CJ and Josh saw a snake earlier." 

She bolted up, knocking over the trashcan she'd been sitting on, and cursed quietly. "Christ, you tell me this *now*?" 

He smiled, almost laughing at the comical expression of fear on her face. "It was just a garden variety snake, you know." 

"Yeah, well, you could've mentioned it *before* I sat down," she huffed, brushing the dirt off her jeans. 

Thumbs hooked in the pockets of his khakis, he replied with a smile, "It wasn't even here, it was at the farm. Besides, it was funnier watching you squirm." 

"Was it funny to watch me squirm when you finally told me about the MS?" she asked flippantly, still brushing dirt off her pants. 

The smile on his face froze, then turned tight and hurt, as he nodded and turned back around. "I guess I'll see you, then." 

Shaking her head, she walked after him as he left the alley. "Leo," she called, pulling her jacket around her to fend off the night air. 

He turned around, almost hopefully. "Yeah?" 

A part of her wanted to apologize for snapping at him. Shaking the notion, she motioned back to the alley and asked, "What were *you* doing out here?" 

He rubbed the back of his head, and shrugged. "I just wanted to get out of that damned hotel." 

"Why?" 

He put his hands fully into his pockets, the crisp air starting to get to him. He inhaled, trying to center his thoughts; the air smelled sweetly mellow, like avocadoes. "It was too damn crowded," he finally answered at the top of his breath. "You know how I get around crowds." 

She nodded, pulling her sweater sleeves down around her fingers. "I know." Dropping her head a little, she mumbled, "I should probably get back to my room. It's getting late." 

"It already is late," he countered. Glancing off into the distance, he added, "But, yeah. I, uh, I guess I should be getting back, too." 

"Probably." She glanced around the deserted street. "You know if there's a Seven Eleven around here?" 

Shaking his head, he asked, "Why?" 

"That was my last smoke," she answered. "I was hoping to get some more before tomorrow." 

He shrugged, and looked away. "Sorry. I don't--there aren't any places open now." 

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "There aren't any all-night convenience stores here? Or even most-night?" 

"Nothing that'll be open at... " He glanced at his watch. "Now. It's too late." He noticed her shivering slightly and pulled off his jacket. "Take it," he said, starting to wrap it around her shoulders. 

"I'm fine," she muttered, but she let him put his jacket on her; it was still warm from his body heat, and smelled of his aftershave and soap. "I'm about to go inside, anyway." 

"Yeah, but right now, you're outside, and it's cold," he stated quietly. "Wear it." 

"You're gonna be cold," she stated, even as she pulled the jacket around her even more. 

"I'm going back inside," he replied, his hands lingering on her arms. She could feel the slight tremble in his fingertips as the late night cold seeped under his skin as she pressed her back against the chill brick wall. 

"You're already cold," she asserted quietly, taking his hands in hers, warming them. "Look at you. Damn stoic, thinking you have to suffer all the time. As if you're the only person in the world who can bear it." 

"Margaret... " Her eyes were glistening with starlight, and he shook his head to get those eyes out of his view. "It's late." 

"I hate you, sometimes," she whispered vehemently, letting go of one hand so that she could trace the arch of his ear. "Damn liar." 

"First I'm a damn stoic, then I'm a damn liar?" he quipped with a smirk, pulling his hands away and crossing them tightly over his chest to hide the shivers that were passing through him. 

She slapped him and replied, "It's not funny. You lied to me." 

His cheek was stinging from her hand, and he clenched his jaw to bite back any angry remarks that might have come to mind. "I'm sorry, Margaret," he stated. There. There was his apology, late though it may be. "What do you want from me?" 

"Time travel," she answered. 

"Time travel?" 

"I want you to go back in time and not lie." Her eyes had turned hard on him, and he shrank at their anger. "It's too late to apologize now." 

"Then I can't do anything for you," he said, defeated and quiet. "I can't." 

"I hate you," she repeated, tipping his chin up and leaning down to kiss him. He responded, parting his lips to allow her access, and his hands reached under her wool sweater; they were cold against her stomach and hips, and she shook at his touch. 

"We can't do this," he whispered, his thumbs pressed against her hipbones as she peppered kisses down his jawline. 

"Too late," she murmured against the nape of his neck, causing the fine, thin hairs there to stand on end as her fingers twined with the thicker hair on the back of his head. 

"You're drunk," he said as her fingers moved down to undo his collar, exposing his neck to the cold night air. 

Dipping her tongue against the hollow at the base of his throat, she murmured, "Only had one beer." 

Her hands moved down his chest and stomach, and he pushed himself into her open palms, saying, "It'll make things awkward at work." 

"Never has before," she replied, her fingers tracing the bulge in the soft, tan cotton of his trousers. 

He let her lead him up to his hotel room, through the deserted lobby and past the quiet rooms of their coworkers. "I don't want to," he finally said. 

She stepped back from him for a moment, smiling sadly at the way his eyes betrayed his words. "Liar," she muttered, before tugging his belt loose. He'd been hard since their first kiss that night. 

Sometime, they ended up on the bed; he pushed into her until she reached a quiet, choking climax, and as he spiraled to that same point, he told her he loved her, and that he was sorry. She wiped the sweat-dampened hair off his brow, and called him a liar as he came inside her. And when he lay dizzy on top of her, her fingers grazing up and down his back, she told him just how much she hated him for lying; he swallowed it, because she had a point about the MS, and because he knew that in the morning, she'd act as if nothing had happened, so he could push her words of hate out of his mind. And if he could push those words out of his mind, he could go back to pretending it didn't hurt. 

He watched her dress, afterwards, as he lay naked in his bed, both of them still flushed a little; it was the same as every other time, but he always watched. If she noticed, she never said anything, and he never found the right time to apologize for it later; it was always too late to say anything, and he wasn't really sorry for it, anyway. 

"I've gotta go get some sleep," she said, "if I want to be up early enough to get some cigarettes before everything starts." 

"You could sleep here," he offered. She never stayed with him, afterwards; there had been eight times before this, ever since he'd gotten divorced, and she'd never stayed. He knew that she wouldn't stay this time, but he hoped and offered anyway. Perhaps, if she stayed, she would see that it wasn't just a casual fuck for him, and that he had more to offer her than just that. 

"I really can't," she replied distractedly, pulling on her sweater. "If anyone noticed, we could be in trouble. Don't you think they'd notice?" 

He almost told her he didn't care, but he hesitated, and then it was too late. She would think that he was lying, if he tried to tell her he wanted more out of this relationship. It was a strange relationship they had, a relationship where they alternated between friends, lovers, and antagonists, and a relationship that was rife with too lates, on all fronts. Too lates, and lies. 

When the silence grew too long to be comfortable, he finally resigned himself to saying, "They'd notice, yeah." 

She might have noticed the resignation in his voice, because she paused and looked at him. "Leo?" she asked, concern pulling her thin eyebrows together slightly. 

He glanced out the window; outside, the sun was just barely brushing a haze of purple on the dark horizon, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek in thought. He could have very well told her anything he'd wanted to, as she was his captive audience in that moment. He wanted to tell her that his love was actually loathing, but that was a lie, and he was tired of lies. But lying was easier than telling her that he was in love with her, because he knew that with all the other lies he'd told her, she wouldn't believe him. He'd cried wolf to often. 

So, he turned back to her and decided on a simple truth, one that he was certain she'd believe: "You should really quit smoking." 

"Yeah," she said, pulling her shoes on; he was fine, and she needed at least an hour's sleep before the day began. "Bye, Leo." 

She opened the door as she straightened her hair, and a thought flashed through his mind. "I'm sorry," he said truthfully, but it was too late, as she was already out the door. He shifted in the bed, turning so that he was on his stomach with a pillow lodged between his crossed arms and his face; and as he drifted off for a couple hours' sleep, he managed to persuade himself that the moisture in his eyes was just a little sweat, trickling down from his forehead. 

-end- 


End file.
